


Hiding

by GotTea



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-07 17:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11628399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: Everyone has their secrets, things they need to hide.





	1. Chapter 1

**Boyd**

* * *

The familiar weight and shape of the pint glass in his hand is comforting, but it doesn’t quite take the edge off his worries. Out of habit Boyd glances up at the big, old-fashioned clock over the bar, and winces at the hands that have barely moved since the last time he looked. It’s not helping.

Not at all.

Staring down into the amber liquid, he tries to focus his wandering, tormenting thoughts. Strives to call them into some sort of order, to focus on the positives.

It works, for a few minutes. He thinks of the future, what that might entail, but then the present catches up with him and destroys the bright, happy vision. Leaves instead the possibility of only a great, gaping hole in the rest of his life.

His eyes flicker upwards. Find that only five more minutes have elapsed.  

Shoulders slumping slightly, he leans forward on the bar and studies a trio of old scars etched deep into the wood. Burn marks, most likely. Not from a cigarette though. Oddly shaped, evenly dispersed. Definitely something else, but what he has no idea. It occupies him briefly, as he works through the possibilities, but finds nothing that seems suitable.

It’s annoying.

Very.

Someone takes the stool beside him and a frown wedges itself into his brow. He doesn’t want company, and he certainly doesn’t want to hear, “Gin and tonic, please.” Female voice. Light, Irish.

He doesn’t look up. Deliberately keeps his focus on his own drink.

“Girlfriend leave you?”

Despite himself, he starts, anger coursing through his blood at the thought that hits far closer to home than she – whoever she is – could possibly know.

Eyes narrowing, he glares, asks, “Why do you ask?”

Slim shoulders shrug easily. “You look like a man who’s drowning his sorrows.”

“Well I’m not,” he says, rather more curtly than he intended. “I’m having one drink, and that’s it. And there is and was no girlfriend.” He has no idea why he says it. Why he gives out this piece of personal information.

He studies her. Average height, slender; gentle curves. Vibrant red hair pulled back in a ponytail – not her natural colour, he’d wager, but it still suits her. Jeans, fitted grey top under an expensive, well-made leather jacket. Boots. It is her eyes that catch him, though. Dark brown, steady and intelligent. The kind of eyes that hide a lot from the outside world.

She’s trouble, and he knows it instinctively.

Trouble of the kind Boyd wants absolutely nothing to do with, of that he is certain.

She’s also studying him back. Intently.

It sets him on edge, makes him immediately far more wary. He says nothing though – waits instead to see if she will say anything more.

Her drink arrives and she takes a sip, still considering him.

“Why are you here, then?” Blunt. Incredibly direct. Unsettling.

“What?”

Her eyes narrow a fraction, though not in anger. “If you’re not drowning your sorrows…”

Nerves irritated, he tries not to glare as he says, “Drinking. Obviously.”

A hint of a smirk is hidden as she takes another sip. “Obviously.”

His eyes flick upwards. Seven minutes.

Those brown eyes are still watching him. Against his better judgement, and to fill the silence, he asks, “What about you?”

“What about me?” Impassive. Incredibly annoying.

“Why are _you_ here?”

She’s still watching him. Attentively. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“Who?”

Leather moves as the shoulders beneath it shrug. “I don’t know.”

Boyd’s intrigued, despite himself. Knows he shouldn’t be. She’s definitely trouble. He doesn’t want anything to do with her, he really, really doesn’t.

A sip of beer, a slow swallow. Another glance.

Ten minutes.

“How will you know when they get here, then?”

He doesn’t mean to ask, but… somehow she’s helping pass the time.

She knows. She knows damn well she’s caught his attention, he can see it, and it irks him. It shouldn’t, but somehow it does.

Another shrug, far too nonchalant for his liking. “I just will.”

She’s sitting backwards now, leaning on the bar – it’s a move that shows off the curves of her breasts, the toned nature of her body. He notices, of course he does, but it’s… irrelevant. Immaterial. He isn’t interested, honestly doesn’t even spare it a thought beyond the automatic recognition of what he sees.

He notices that she keeps her eyes on the room spread out before them, aside from the occasional subtle glance sideways at him.  She appears relaxed; bored, almost. Boyd wonders if he should take offence.

He doesn’t say anything, concentrates instead on his drink. Out of natural defiance he’s not going to rush it, but he isn’t going to draw it out either. He’ll take the long walk back, get some exercise. Clear his head. A single pint, in the pub, people watching – it’s not helping anything like he thought it would.

In fact, it’s not helping at all.

Fifteen minutes.

“You’re clock watching.” Statement, not a question.

“And?”

“Why?”

God, she’s irritating. On another day he’d find her fascinating, he’s sure. Would enjoy batting back to see where the conversation would take them. To see if he could get a rise out of her.

Not today.

Twenty minutes. If he walks the really long way, he’ll get there and not have to pace up and down, impatiently checking his watch.

“Good luck with waiting,” Boyd advises, finishing his drink in one long swallow.

“Maybe I’m not waiting any longer,” she suggests, shifting her glass from one hand to the other.

His mind is elsewhere, has already left this woman here at the bar and moved on. “Eh?”

“Maybe I’ve found the right person.”

He looks at her, blankly. “Go and talk to them, then.”

She smiles up at him, and it’s sunny and just a touch coy. “I’m already talking to him.”

Oh.

Damn.

Not what he was expecting. Not at all.

“I – ” It’s unusual for him to flounder, he admits to himself, but she’s totally caught him off guard.

“Have another drink with me,” she suggests. “An early dinner, maybe.”

The rest of her suggestion is left unsaid, but Boyd can hear it loud and clear and if he wasn’t so preoccupied and worried, he’d be flattered, and he knows it. Likewise by the way she’s gazing at him, eyes lingering on his arms and shoulders under the lightweight sweater he chose to combat the slight chill of the early autumn day. In the right circumstances he might have stayed, could easily have taken her to dinner and probably fallen into bed with her, too. She’s pretty, she’s engaging, and in a different time she might have really provoked his curiosity, but he is long past that point in his life now.

Gently he shakes his head, strives for a tone that will soften his rejection. “I can’t.”

“Can’t, or won’t?” Still direct. Though a touch hurt, as well.

He gives her the truth. “Both.”

“You’re married.” This time it is an accusation.

“I am.”

“How convenient,” she mutters, and he’s not sure what to make of it. Doesn’t want to wait long enough to work it out.

“I’m sorry, but I really have got to go.” He’s not cruel or nasty, and perhaps because she looks as though she doesn’t believe him, as though he’s just giving her a standard refusal, he adds, “My wife is having radiotherapy. I need to pick her up and take her home.”

She looks startled, opens her mouth to say something that he’s sure is going to be a kind apology of some sort. He can’t take it. Can’t bear hearing any more of them, and so he walks away before she can say anything further.

The well-meaning kindness of people that manifests itself in the same sentences over and over again – it still hurts too much.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sarah**

* * *

**Eighteen Months Later...**

He doesn't recognise her. It's the biggest blessing of this entire fiasco. She can't imagine having to work with him if he knew who she was, if he remembered that awkward moment in the pub when she'd tried to win him over.

Counter terrorism. The grief that is haunting her, the memories that are stalking her… And yet, there is something to be said for all the trouble she went to with changing her appearance all those times, it seems.

A real flair for accents on top of coloured contact lenses, hair dye, different wardrobes… Perfectly able to disguise herself and hide in plain sight, she was a natural in that job, right from day one.

She wonders how his wife is. If she survived treatment and made a full recovery, or if he's now widowed. Wonders how she could find out. Not for any spurious reasons – she's not callous, and she certainly has no interest in him in  _that_  way anymore – but she's curious.

It's been eighteen months. Maybe a bit more.

There have been other men since.

Should she tell him, she wonders, though it's a brief thought that she quickly rejects. There's just no way she will willingly revisit that awkward moment. Besides, the humiliation of it now, when she has to work with him…

_Under_  him.

The anger rises again, makes her ball her fists and clench her jaw. This is just such a  _stupid_ , awful situation. But… she's in no condition to be fronting a team, to be doing anything else right now, and she knows it. It's a grudging admission, but she hasn't made it this far through her career without forcing herself to see the truth, always.

The fear though, the  _terror_ …

For just a moment she's back in that room, can hear the guns, can smell the blood. Can  _feel_  the terror swamping her as she sees her colleagues on the floor.

They're dead, and she's going to die too…

Sarah gasps, chokes. Leans forward, clutches her thighs. And stares at the cold, grey industrial carpet tiles that spread out endlessly under her boots. They're solid. Fixed.

Non-threatening. Just like this place is supposed to be.

The Cold Case Unit. Her new placement, new team.

Non-threatening. Easy.

A place to recuperate, get her head back together. Recover herself, hide away for a while.

Plan how to get her career back on track.

Footsteps startle her, and she turns quickly, makes a show of appearing to concentrate on the computer before her. Look as if she's working.

Boyd strides past. Long legs; very long. Tall man. Big feet. Fearsome, dedicated.

Marches to his own beat, always.

She's heard of him, of course. Whispers and snippets over the years. Improbable tales of bravery and near impossible results with limited resources.

Smith and her cronies would love to sink their claws into him. As she well knows.

She's still attracted to him.

The knowledge startles her, and Sarah blinks at the computer screen. Risks a glance upwards, into his office.

Behind his desk, ensconced on the phone and scowling into the middle distance, he's just a picture of broad shoulders, spiky hair and a deep frown replacing the devilish grin she's already seen hints of.

He's older than her, too, but that's never stopped her before.

Terrible, inappropriate taste in men, that's what her sister always tells her with a disgusted sigh. When will she settle down and find herself someone complementary, someone fitting?

He's handsome and fiery, and, she suspects, quite possibly extremely entertaining between the sheets.

But none of that is hers to worry about, anyway. He's married, and therefore untouchable.

Besides, she hates everything he stands for. Resents – intensely – that she's here and he's… in charge.

It's abstract, anyway, her attraction. Not the sort of thing she would actually do anything about, even if he weren't married.

If he still is.

What? Sarah gives herself a quick mental shake, staggered by how much this move to the CCU basement seems to have shaken her.

Why, she asks herself, is she even contemplating all this?

She knows why.

Shame.

The lingering, uncomfortably prickling burn of shame.

She still doesn't know why she did it. Why, when he left the pub and took a meandering route down side streets and through a park, she followed him. Why she kept a careful distance, making sure he never saw her, never had any clue that she was there.

Maybe she didn't believe him, maybe she was too entranced by him. Maybe she was still angry with him for rejecting her. Maybe it was all three.

It stung, because she wanted him.

Whatever the reasons, she followed him, and when he arrived at the hospital she'd closed the deliberate gap, kept herself behind a tree as she watched him approach the entrance and then suddenly pause as a woman emerged from behind the glass doors. From across the road he'd lifted his hands in clear exasperation, the silent 'why didn't you wait inside for me?' easy to read. The woman had simply shrugged and walked towards him, and Sarah had been left with no doubt that it was all exactly as he'd said it was.

Slow and unsteady on her feet, the other woman was clearly undergoing treatment of some kind; heavy coat, carefully arranged headscarf, unnaturally pale, unhealthily thin.

Weak.

Old.

Radiant smile; battle worn, but still beautiful in his eyes, she could tell. Watched as the woman melted into his arms as he approached. Saw the way he enveloped her, wrapped her up, held her tight, head lowering to rest against hers, eyes closing as he seemed to shut out the world and focus only on her.

Envious.

That's the only way she could describe her feelings in that moment. Deeply envious of this woman. This weak, ailing woman.

Fifteen odd minutes in a pub, talking to the man, observing him, and trying to entice him. Just fifteen minutes of realising how much she wanted him, only to be politely knocked back.

A valid explanation given, too. Not a man to lie to her, or push her away just because he could. No, he was a gentleman about it, but she's still jealous.

Of a woman she doesn't even know.

Present tense, because she is still jealous. It's a startling truth, for she hasn't thought about him at all since maybe a week after that day. Forgot about him, and her. Whoever she is. That old, worn, washed-out woman.

Now though…

Idly Sarah wonders if she could look him up, then immediately halts that thought. She can't, and she knows it. They are strictly forbidden from using police systems for such activity.

God, this is all so ridiculous. She doesn't want him, isn't interested. It's just her head – it's such a mess. She can't sleep, her body hurts all the time, her mind never rests easy. She works out, but it is punishing, not healthy, and she knows it. She's hurting herself more than she's helping, and she knows that too.

Can't let it go.

Doesn't know how.

Hates her shrink.

Is barely hanging on.

He doesn't recognise her though, and that can only be a good thing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Boyd**

* * *

He’s angry, and he can’t deny it. There are so many things needling him right now, so much fury boiling inside him. There’s a clatter from beyond his office and Boyd looks up automatically, sees Sarah bend down to pick up a dropped pen. Rage flares at the simple sight of her, and he stands, plucks his jacket from the back of his chair and slips into it in one smooth movement before striding out of the room. He passes the central desks, feels two pairs of eyes on him as he walks by, but says nothing.

Outside the air is cool, hits his lungs with a refreshing quality that helps. He walks, stride long and quick, as he heads for the river, wanting its steadiness, its unwavering, unalterable movement. It’s calming influence.

Maureen Smith. Sarah Cavendish. The unit. Julie Rees. Cancer. Grace.

Christ, it’s all such a mess. Such a sudden, complicated, unreal mess.

Smith wants his head, he’s sure of it. Preferably on a spike.  Displayed for all New Scotland Yard to see. She’s after his unit, wants to claw back the control that’s been his for so long now. The CCU has been left alone, forgotten about, he knows. A deliberate act, designed to leave him to his own devices. A gamble that he will screw up.

An example to be made.

And yet a trophy to be exhibited whenever things go well. He’s become cynically accustomed to it, to being paraded around whenever a result is particularly good, and he is darkly aware that their team’s success is the only thing that has kept them going.

Amidst all the chaos, they make the force look good, and that can – and has – been pulled out many times whenever there is a bad press day.

So quite why Smith wants him at her mercy is a complete mystery to him.

Sarah… is more than just damaged goods, he’s sure. To claw back her career she will have to show she can be trusted. Absolute obedience, he knows. But not to him. To _them_. It’s what they didn’t tell him up in that boardroom, but what he’s certain is the truth. Sarah is their way to watch him, and watch him she will. For she is astute enough to know how much of a knife-edge she is walking along professionally.

The CCU is running on borrowed time. He’s felt it for a while, but now he knows it. But whether they want him out, or simply moved on elsewhere, Boyd doesn’t know. And that is… troubling.

It’s far more abstract than his immediate problems though. Julie Rees… God, what a woman. Faking cancer... if it’s true, then he has no words, none at all. Not when Grace is… when she’s…

Eleven months and five days. Nearly a year since she was given the all clear. Since the crushing weight of the staggering burden of illness was lifted. Since he started breathing freely again, and she returned to her desk, eyes bright with a renewed lease of life.

Nearly a year of a normal life, of memories. Nearly a year of peace in his heart that he never expected to find. Nearly a year of being thankful every day for her fighting spirit and determination; for the simple gift of companionship and love.

In three weeks he’s got ten days leave, and she’s going to a conference, something that provoked a near bloody argument in front of the team.

All a set up.

They’re going away, at his insistence. One year cancer free, two since they stood before the registrar. He can’t let either pass by uncelebrated. Won’t.

And her quiet smile when he told her that…

It still warms his heart when he thinks about it.

He’s reached the river, and he stops by the concrete barrier, leans on it and watches the water. It’s grey and choppy, treacherous for anyone if they fell in. He’s thought about it before. About stepping off the heights of a bridge and letting the river take him.

Grace.

Blue eyes, impish smile, tender love, heated desire. Total acceptance of who he is, what he is. Complete freedom to bare his soul without fear of being judged.

She’s the reason he didn’t.

If they take his career, he’s still got her. Always.

If.

They might take his career _because_ of her. He knew that in advance, but it still doesn’t stop him from asking her when they thought she was going to… die. He wanted a true declaration for the world to – eventually – see, she wanted him to have a legal right to make decisions, if necessary.

 _Always_.

He’s put a lifetime into policing. Given everything to the CCU, and more. Doesn’t want to do anything else. Wholeheartedly believes in their cause, the ethos of what they do.

She’s put just as much into her career; has a spotless record and sterling reputation. Adores the work they do, the opportunities it affords her.

Working together is… perfect.

It’s a difficult, saddening secret, but they make it work. Love each other far too much not to. They maintain both houses, keep up the pretences, the disguise. Grace still has her own name, he doesn’t wear his ring.

He wouldn’t want to work without her.

Sarah… there’s something about her, something he can’t put his finger on, and it’s driving him mad. The last few days it’s been clawing at him, but nothing has sparked recognition, realisation. Whatever the secret surrounding her, he can’t solve it. Can’t scratch the itch.

It’s infuriating.

He feels… destabilised by it all. She is a dangerous unknown. But there’s something… familiar. Like déjà vu.

It’s not quite overwhelming, but it is unsettling and he hates it. Hates the intrusion, the way it was forced on him. The changes, the threat, the risk to what it is he does, what they do, the things they fight for.

It hurts.

It hurts that everything they have all worked for, everything they have put so much time and heart and effort and dedication into might be about to come crashing down around them. Boyd clenches his fist, presses it hard into the concrete. Feels the pain building, the tension inside him looking for an exit.

A small body moves in beside him, a slender hand rests on his arm.

He exhales steadily, relaxes. “How did you know I’d be here?”

The reply is simple. Touches his heart. “I know you.”

She does, and it’s wonderful. It’s the strong, steady, constant ray of hope in his life.

“How can I help you?”

Boyd looks down into those eyes, soaks in the tenderness he finds there. Feels his chest loosen, his mind ease. With her, he doesn’t need to hide.

“You just have,” he replies, taking her hand in his, letting her fingers slip between his own. Grace smiles, squeezes. Gives strength, support. Love.

Always.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sarah**

* * *

The team is… fascinating.

That's the only way she can think of describing them. They are tightknit, loyal, quirky. They work exceptionally well together, particularly down here in this odd, gloomy basement. Out of sight, out of mind – that seems to be the prevailing attitude. Hidden away, forgotten about.

There is a strong sense of family, as if the main players are all connected on far more than a purely professional level. So much so that she feels more than just an outsider. It's not deliberate, Sarah is sure, just that there is an inherent mistrust of change. A deep-seated fear of who she is, and what she may represent.

She speculates idly about what kind of challenges they might've fended off in the past.

Wonders if those are the things that brought them all closer together.

Spencer is loyal to the extreme when it comes to Boyd, but not above angry, sulky argument. She could easily put it down to hero-worship, but there's something else there as well. Something historic that binds the two men together, something she can't quite put her finger on. He's protective of the others too, won't hear a word against them.

Eve is perceptive. Scarily so. And she and Grace are as thick as thieves. The two women, regardless of the age gap between them, seem as close as a pair of giggling school girls plotting untold mischief and sharing their deepest secrets in an unnoticed corner of the playground. But they are considerably more intelligent, and far more sophisticated, and that causes a prickle of discomfort down Sarah's spine whenever she sees them together.

They are pleasant to her; kind, even, but they are wary, too. Approach her with a careful curiosity as to whether she is genuine, or a threat.

And, she wonders, is she?

This… move… was strategic. In more ways than one. At least, that's what they're all thinking, even if they're not saying it. She'd put money on it.

Boyd is suspicious.

Grace even more so.

Sarah has caught the older woman watching her. Has felt the weight of that steady, serene gaze on her more than once.

It's unnerving. Incredibly so.

What is it with those two?

Their relationship is… weird. Surrogate parents to the others, they are so close, so in sync with one another that they form an impenetrable wall at the top of the unit. It was apparent from the moment she first saw them together, as is their complete unity and total trust, faith in and support of one another. Mess with one and suffer the wrath of the other.

Their bond, whatever it is, appears unbreakable.

Maybe that's what the higher-ups are bothered about.

No one will talk to her about them. Not Eve, not Spencer, and none of the handful of junior staff floating around.

Grace and Boyd – firmly off limits when it comes to discussion.

They are so familiar with each other, as well; seem to have their own code of communication. Words aren't even necessary half the time, it seems, and the looks that pass between them… she really has to wonder what's going on there.

They are nothing but professional, she can't fault them on that, and they have a long history of working together, even prior to the creation of the unit, but it's still… odd.

Soft, feminine laughter makes Sarah look up from the records she is slowly, laboriously trawling through. Grace, in Boyd's office, her face alight with amusement. Boyd, behind his desk, sleeves rolled up and hands behind his head, a devilish grin on his face.

That smile… for a moment she feels a wash of intense, entirely unexpected jealousy rush through her that Grace is the recipient of that grin, and then, startled, she shakes herself.

_Where did that come from?_  she wonders.  _I don't fancy him anymore, do I?_

She doesn't, she sure she doesn't. She thinks she doesn't. Wishes she didn't keep questioning herself.

It's irrelevant, she reminds herself. He's married.

They flirt, she realises. Grace and Boyd – they flirt. It's subtle, but they definitely do. And the more she thinks about it, the more it seems to be an integral part of the way they relate to each other.

Before she can take that line of thought any further, though, full-blown peals of amusement echo out into the main room again, this time accompanied by the deeper sounds of masculine laughter. Both of them are in stitches, it seems, and the look on Boyd's face as he watches as Grace…

It could mean nothing, simply be a great working relationship between two old friends, but what if it's not? What if there is something more in the way they look at each other, in the sly smiles, the loaded gazes, the unspoken communication?

He's married, Sarah reminds herself, and if she's learned anything in the last couple of weeks it's that despite his sometimes questionable methods, Peter Boyd is a deeply principled man, and very old fashioned in some ways. Unless he is now widowed, he's not the sort of man that would cheat on a woman, she's fairly sure of it.

Grace though… there is something about Grace Foley that is nagging at the back of Sarah's mind. Something that she can't put her finger on, and that is extremely irritating.


	5. Chapter 5

**Boyd**

* * *

Faking cancer… Christ. Perhaps his rage with Julie Rees is unjustified – the woman is ill, after all – but he can find no way to calm the fury rattling around inside himself. Not when he can still smell the scent of death clinging to the soil moved from atop Donald’s decomposed body. Not when he can still see Toby’s face as they took the woman away. Not when he can still hear Miranda sobbing and calling out for her mother.

Not when he thinks of Grace, and how very close to the edge she was before slowly, slowly turning the corner and beginning to recover, one tiny step at a time.

Not when he thinks of how very near he came to spending the rest of his life alone, with only a grave to visit and a handful of precious memories to cling to.

For once he refused to interview. Couldn’t bring himself to sit down opposite the woman and dredge up the death of her husband in all its gory detail. Didn’t trust himself to not lose his temper and do something stupid.

Grace…

He’ll never forget the agony in her eyes when she surfaced from the anaesthetic following surgery, or the times he found her on her knees, slumped over the bath, grey with exhaustion and sickness. So many gut-wrenching, horrendous memories, and yet Julie Rees…

Boyd takes his anger out on the free weights in the small, scruffy first-floor room at the opposite end of the station to the CCU’s offices that is jokingly referred to as the gym. In truth it’s not terrible, and though the sole treadmill, bike, rowing machine and the odd, mismatched collection of power bags, medicine balls and other exercise paraphernalia are not a touch on the facilities at other, bigger stations, they are more than adequate to the imaginative and creative types who know what to do with such things instead of simply plodding mile after relentless mile and hoping for big results.

Exercise has always calmed him, always helped him sort through his troubled, tangled thoughts, and after a lapse caused by becoming overwhelmingly embroiled in politics and crippling workloads, the last couple of years have reminded him of not only his old coping mechanism, but also the importance of maintaining a healthy lifestyle and looking after his body.

If the effects on his strength and muscle tone, and his ability to show off the results of his now regular workout sessions to a certain lady in his life also have an effect on his very male ego, well, that’s just an added bonus. For her as well as for him.

Sarah. She’s far more unstable than he first thought, and that’s troubling. He needs an unreliable, unpredictable officer on his core team as much as he needs a hole in his head. And the state of her as they went into Denise Metcalf’s house…

He can’t help wondering what happened. And how he might possibly be able to find out. What caused such a fall from grace for so successful a rising star, and how long they think she’s likely to be lurking in his unit, hiding from the watchful eyes of those in the know. Because she _is_ hiding, definitely. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that.

It will take as long as it takes, there’s no finite time limit on healing psychological injuries. That’s what Grace would tell him, he’s sure. He needs to ask her what she thinks of Sarah, he muses. Not tonight though – not at home. Perhaps tomorrow he can engineer a working lunch out for them both, and they can speak freely away from the prying eyes and ears of the office.

God, she made him laugh today. Really laugh. Tears running down his cheeks and ribs aching with the efforts of it all laugh. A pure, bright spot in the gloomy dark of an investigation that’s been nothing less than deeply troubling since it first began.

Her laughter… the vibrant, beautiful life in her…

He wonders idly if he can provoke that wonderful sound again before the day is out, and then smirks to himself. He can definitely make her laugh, if he really wants to, for she is extraordinarily ticklish. She won’t thank him for it, but it has been known on certain occasions to lead to other mutually exciting activities…

Workout done, Boyd heads briskly for the showers.

* * *

Thanks to the release of energy, he’s far more pensive than troubled as he heads home, but he’s still preoccupied and ill at ease as he parks his car and heads inside into the warmth, expecting to find her there, drinking tea and with her head in a book. Instead there is the comforting scent of dinner cooking away to itself in the oven and a note that she has popped out to the shop just around the corner to get some milk. 

It’s deflating.

He just wants a hug, her soft, warm body secure in his arms, the scent of her tickling his nostrils, filtering into his brain and soothing his mind. That’s all, just a hug.

The physical reassurance. The emotional comfort.

The house feels empty without her, and he bounds upstairs to strip off his suit and slip into old, worn jeans and a sweater before heading back down again, thoughts still troubling him.

Grace is his stability; she has been for years, and with everything that’s suddenly changing and unsure around him…

He sinks into his favourite armchair with a grateful sigh. It’s old and over-stuffed and very, very comfortable.

Sarah worries him, there’s no doubt about it. Her attitude towards being on his team… And if the roles were reversed, he asks himself? He knows where his thoughts would be.

The future – long term – is bright. Filled with a rich, complex tapestry of companionship, laughter, happiness, challenge, adventure. Grace is so much more than just the woman he’s hopelessly in love with. There is sex, of course, and a fair bit of it because they don’t just love but they argue as well – for sport, usually – and when they do… Boyd smirks to himself as he sinks deeper into the chair, thinking of just how the fire transfers from her eyes to her hands, to his body…

It’s more than just that, though. They truly are best friends, cheering up and cheering for one another; supporting, amusing, provoking, inspiring and stimulating each other. They share interests, and tolerate quirks, and he knows there are a great many years ahead of them where they will see and do and share things he has only ever dreamed of in a half-hearted, wishful thinking manner.

The immediate future, though… that is looking murky and grey. Unsure.

 And that bothers him more than he knows how to say. He’s put everything and more into his unit, and he’s happy there. Doesn’t want to give it up. Resents, deeply, that he’s being pressured so much when he’s given so much.

Sarah is a ploy. Whether she knows it or not, she is.

She’s damaged and unpredictable. He knows it, and _they_ know it, and he’s sure that’s why she’s really been unceremoniously dumped on his team. To see if he can control her, to see how much damage she can do, whilst under his control. And for that reason, he’s sits and stews, unable to let it go.


	6. Chapter 6

**Sarah**

* * *

She tries to tell herself that this kind of behaviour isn’t really her, but in reality hasn’t she done it for much of her working life now? Following suspects, tracking their movements…

Is Boyd a suspect, she asks herself.

It’s a ludicrous question – of course he’s not – but she still doesn’t quite know the answer to what it is she’s looking for, what she’s searching for. All she knows is that she’s suspicious of… something. Suspicious enough to quietly and carefully follow him as he leaves work and presumably journeys home.

He heads towards Finchley, pulls up outside a modest end-terrace house where another car is already parked. Lets himself in with a key.

Just before he shuts the door, as he turns with a palm on the handle, she sees his mouth open as he calls out to someone, sees the easy, relaxed way he is already kicking off his shoes.

This is his home, it would seem. And clearly he doesn’t live here alone.

Still married, then.

Does that matter?

A tiny, traitorous part of her says yes. Yes it does.

Why, she asks herself, is she even here. What made her need to find out? Why does she even care?

Why the unquashable need to know?

Lingering embarrassment and discomfort. That feeling in the pit of her stomach that he might just suddenly remember.

Might look at her differently.

With pity.

It’s enough to make Sarah feel faintly sick, but she pushes it aside angrily. She’s tough, fierce. A strong, independent leader.

A Superintendent, for heaven’s sake.

She didn’t achieve that, and every other goal in her life that she’s attained, by questioning herself and her motivations. It’s time to stop obsessing.

Rain clatters on the roof of the car, blurs the windscreen. She can still see out of her window though, and there’s an indistinct shadow moving around in the front bedroom.

She studies the house. Neat, orderly. Trimmed hedge, tidy driveway. No weeds. Well-tended borders, but obviously not by a gardening enthusiast. Simple, easy to care for stuff. Not that Sarah is an authority on such things, but after years of traipsing in and out of strangers’ homes she can tell the difference.

Clean front door and porch step. Well-kept car, a few years old, parked neatly. Just like so many other ordinary, normal homes up and down the country.

Did she expect something different, she asks herself.

Boyd is in the living room downstairs now. Doesn’t bother to close the curtains, instead sinks down into an armchair, the precise colour of which she can’t determine from the distance she’s parked at. It’s light though. Looks very comfortable.

His profile is clearly visible, strong and distinctive. She squints, and realises he looks troubled.

About her, maybe?

Movement in the wing mirror catches her eye, and Sarah freezes. Someone, a woman judging by her size, is approaching, hood of her coat drawn up, head down against the rain. Unbranded shopping bag in hand, face obscured.

Sarah holds her breath, watches intently. The woman goes up to the front door and lets herself in, disappears from view.

He’s definitely still married, then.

She waits, wonders if she should move closer. The view isn’t great from her car, but her curiosity is vast. Who is this woman? She draws her own hood up – against the rain and in disguise – and slips from her seat. Makes her way to the hedge that will give cover, blocking the view from inside.

And then her heart clenches in her chest, the breath in her lungs freezing and becoming a mass of ice that begins to choke her. She scans the area for threats, the standard assessment inflected by paranoia that it isn’t enough, that the enemy are hiding, playing tricks on her. Even the solid, cool weight of the firearm in her hands isn’t enough to reassure her.

She can smell bodies, blood; hear the scratch of rats inside the walls, feel the blaze of pain as the bullet hits her arm from nowhere, the gunshot echoing in her ears and the weight of her companion falling, hitting the back of her legs as he crumples.

A snail crunches under her foot, and Sarah almost screams into the approaching hint of dusk. For a moment she presses her face into the soggy leaves of the greenery in front of her and breathes, its distinctive wet, leafy garden aroma filtering into her brain and reminding her of where she is.

One, two, three…

A trick from her therapist, one that doesn’t work. Should she tell him, or just request a new shrink?

Would she be allowed to?

She has no say in the matter, after all.

Bastards.

Pain filters through to her brain, and it’s only then that she realises that she’s gripping a branch, that the bark is digging deep into her skin. Has actually punctured four tiny holes that are now oozing blood.

There are a string of curses on her lips, but she bites them back. Just. Stuffs a crumpled tissue of indeterminate age from her pocket into her palm and squeezes around it.

How long will this take to go away?

This isn’t why she’s here.

Looking up, she moves carefully, stays concealed.

Boyd is still in his armchair, lounging easily as he drains a glass of water and stares at something on the wall that is out of her view. Pensive, frowning. Troubled.

Grace enters, and Sarah’s heart lurches again.

_What_?

Why is she here? She’s not… she can’t be…

Grace’s lips are moving, Boyd’s head is shaking, nodding, and then a pause. He must be speaking. His expression has changed completely, become unguarded, relaxed. And then Grace smiles at him, and it is that same beautiful, open, radiant smile that Sarah last saw eighteen months ago outside the hospital.

The shock is almost too much.

_Grace_ is that weak, old, ailing woman who staggered on her feet as she walked straight into his arms while Sarah stood and watched from a distance.

_Grace_ is the vibrant, intelligent, happy woman who moves towards him, perches on the arm of his chair and rests a tender hand against his cheek, runs gentle fingers through his hair as she smiles down at him.

_Grace_ is the woman whose waist he rests his palms on, who he lifts down into his lap. Who he cradles against his chest and then kisses with an artless finesse that rips something open inside Sarah and leaves her bleeding anew.

She staggers backwards, stumbles to her car. Clumsily pushes it into gear, drives away. Can’t remember where the switch for the wipers is and pulls over two streets away.

Grace survived radiotherapy.

Grace is married to Boyd.

God.

She thinks back, looks past the disguise of cancer, can see what illness was hiding.

This is… unreal.

He’s crossed a line there. That’s the only thought that makes it clearly through Sarah’s mind.

Boyd has crossed a line, and if she had even the faintest clue Maureen Smith would hang him out to dry for it.

She should tell.

She shouldn’t.

How would she explain herself? What she’s done is almost as bad. Following. Spying. Disbelieving.

No one would ever trust her again.

But if she doesn’t tell?

What an awful, awful mess. And it’s all her own fault.

She’s been so blind, and they’ve hidden it all so well.

Why should she tell? The unit clearly works with everything as it is. With the arrangement – whatever it is – that they have. And they must have an arrangement, because the others don’t know about this, surely?

They can’t, can they?

God.

She wants him, and she doesn’t want him.

She grudgingly admires him, and she hates him. Detests what he stands for, the position she is in.

If she’s a spy, if her… condition… is the disguise _they_ are using, then this is exactly the sort of secret that she’s been sent inside to uncover.

But she needs this. Needs the easy stability and chance to recover that this placement is offering her. Needs to recover, lie low for a while. Hasn’t she just seen that? She’s not coping, is barely surviving, and she knows it. She’s hiding her fractures and fissures from the world, pretending to be a functioning, complete person, when really she’s frantically treading water in an ever increasing current.

It’s a grudging admission, but it’s true. If not here, with these people, where else would she go?

He’s entitled to a private life. They both are. And if she does report him, what about Grace? What will that do to her? She deserves to be left out of it, doesn’t she? She’s inoffensive, hasn’t done anything to harm Sarah, and yet…

Boyd hasn’t done anything to hurt her either.

That’s an even more grudging admission.

A surprisingly painful one.

At least she knows now what it is about the other woman that has been bothering her, nagging at her.

The unit gets results, she knows. Phenomenal results. And there is absolutely no denying that they all work spectacularly well together as a team.

But…

It’s fifty-fifty.

Tell, confront him, or hold it inside, bide her time and wait and see.

It’s an impossible dilemma.

And she really doesn’t know what to do.


	7. Chapter 7

**Grace**

* * *

Their bedroom.

It’s always been her favourite room.

A quiet sanctuary; it’s a place to relax and unwind. Warm, easy colours, soothing and comforting. The bed wide, deep and very soft – a luxurious place to fall asleep and dream, to rest and read, to make love.

It’s a place that belongs only to her and Boyd, where she – and he – can hide away from the world and let all their barriers and walls fall away. Where they can simply be themselves.

No one else ever enters this room, and Grace likes it that way.

The light is warm, an intimate glow. It’s uneven, because only her lamp burns into the darkness, his having been extinguished some time ago. It’s just enough to illuminate her book – a novel tonight – and to leave his skin warm and honey-coloured when she glances down at him occasionally, as she moves from page to page.

For a moment her eyes linger on his sleeping form, watching affectionately as his chest moves, his eyelids flutter as he dreams and mutters, a few random words meeting her ears but making no sense whatsoever.

Easy, normal.

So effortlessly, easily domestic, and she adores it. As much as she has always shunned conformity, found difficulty in sustaining conventional relationships with conventional men, this time… This man…

He’s everything to her. Everything.

She treasures the peaceful intimacy in moments like this one.

He’s unguarded, vulnerable in his sleeping state, and the urge to slip further down the bed and slide beneath his arm, her back pressing up against his smooth, warm chest is almost too much to resist.

She doesn’t though, instead stays exactly where she is.

For tonight she cannot settle, cannot fall into a deep, encompassing slumber.

She’s tried, and failed.  

Sarah wants him, Grace knows. Has seen it in the other woman’s eyes, watched it in her unconscious posture. Her reaction to things said and done. Watched the way she watches Boyd.

It put her hackles up at first, until she realised that for some reason Sarah was – is – fighting it. As though the other woman is caught in-between and in two minds.

She’s not worried, for he is hers, and hers alone. Just as she is his.

Always. Forever.

But…

There’s a lot of anger simmering beneath wounded skin. Sarah Cavendish is not happy with her new assignment; that much was abundantly clear from the very first moment she stepped into the basement.

She’s broken, too, and in need of help.

Help, and time. Time away from prying eyes, from people who ask questions and point fingers and whisper in the corridors, behind backs, in corners, everywhere she goes. Whatever happened to Sarah, it was significant, Grace knows.

PTSD is obvious to the trained eye.

And Sarah is looking in all the wrong places to deal with it. That much is obvious too.

She doesn’t want to think about what horrors the other woman saw in counter terrorism. Can’t even begin to imagine it. Is incredibly grateful Boyd has never expressed an interest in that kind of work.

She wouldn’t deal well with the strain of worrying about him that much, day in day out.

He’s been so stressed the last few weeks. So much more than normal, and it worries her terribly. Saddens her to see him suffering, to see him so unhappy with the way things are slipping from his control.

Grace knows what Boyd has put into the unit, just how much it and the rest of his career have cost him personally, and it hurts to see _him_ hurting.

Sarah is dangerous. Grace can feel it. She’s worked with the police for years, has watched the change of time slowly affect the institution, and she knows that officers – especially female officers – do not get to the rank of Superintendent at such a young age without being incredibly ambitious. And lucky. Or well-connected. Or very underhand in a way that bodes trouble for those around them who pose any kind of perceived threat.

And Sarah… she is a complete unknown. Grace has searched, has discreetly asked the right people over coffee and in the park, yet no one can tell her anything worth knowing.

Irish, went to university, joined at twenty-one. Trod on a lot of toes, met the right people. Has been a shining star ever since. Disappeared into counter terrorism ten years back. Good leader, slightly strange character. Likes men.

Nothing more.

It’s frustrating, incredibly so, and alarming too.

Sarah Cavendish is an unknown, a dangerous woman. She’s angry, she’s damaged, she wants – on some level – Boyd, and she’s been hidden away, under his command.

Grace would gladly pay to know what Maureen Smith’s endgame is, where all this is leading. Because this, whatever it is, is certainly strategic.

Boyd is an asset to the force, and his record proves it over and over again. The unit provides good publicity whenever it is needed. Whatever that woman’s vendetta against him is about, Grace would bet it’s something personal, and personal is always so much more treacherous than professional.

It pays to be a smiling face, a genuine listening ear, and over the years Grace has made many friends, and many more acquaintances, has cultivated a reputation as a kind and trustworthy sympathiser. It pays, because all sorts of information reaches her: petty gossip, scandalous half-truths, and real information, quite often as detailed as she likes. Much of it is freely given, but sometimes, through the art of conversation management, it arrives without the teller intending to share, or even being aware that they are.

Sarah is a mystery, as is Maureen’s agenda, but other things have reached her lately, left Grace saddened by the picture it all paints.

The CCU is running on borrowed time, she’s sure of it.

The reasons are obscure, though, make very little sense. Don’t form a picture at all, not even an abstract to try and work with.

One thing is definite though, and that is that Sarah is not just hiding in their unit to recover. Willing or not, knowing or not, she is a spy.

Some, Grace knows, want Boyd out, while others simply want him moved. Sarah is the way to do it.

She hasn’t told him. Any of it.

He knows about Sarah’s dual assignment, for they have discussed that many times; both realised it, understood it, vented about it.

But he doesn’t know what else Grace knows, what she’s heard, listened to.

She should tell him.

Knows she should.

But she can’t.

Can’t let him bear the weight of any more stress than he already does.

Putting her book aside, Grace gazes down at the man who has been curled beside her, heavy and torpid since not long after collapsing on top of her, sated and spent, his heart hammering in his chest and his breathing shallow and erratic as he whispered her name, arms clutching her possessively to him, as though he’d never let her go again.

She’d clung to him, tried to hide herself away in his strong, encompassing embrace. Wanted to stay there forever. But reality is a harsh mistress, and as he slipped into slumber her mind refused to stay quiet, to let her body fade into unconsciousness beside him.

She wants to tell him, doesn’t believe in secrets, but still she’s holding off.

Because she loves him. With all her heart.

Tomorrow morning the alarm will go off early, but they will not get up and rush off to work.

The best part of a fortnight is stretching out ahead of them, just for them. And that is… special.

She doesn’t enjoy hiding, but she likes the privacy they have.

Treasures their time together.

Two years…

In his sleep Boyd mumbles something almost coherent and Grace looks down again in time to see him reach out, wrap his arm around her, palm coming to rest on her hip. The gleam of gold on his finger makes her smile, warms her heart. It’s a silly little thing, but when he’s able to wear it, the sight of his wedding ring always has that effect on her.

She studies the delicate golden band adorning her own finger, turns it gently with her thumb, watching the slender threads of silver that wind their way through the heart of the metal, the two colours irretrievably interwoven.

He chose it, wouldn’t let her see it until he placed it on her finger.

Two years.

Illness, anger, intense fear. Nightmares, weakness, endless appointments. Laughter, adventures, company. Love, lust, unity. Burdens shared, memories built. A joint future secured.

Would it be so bad to retire, she muses? She doesn’t think so.

They’ve worked hard, and they have the rest of their lives ahead of them. Together.

There’s so much promise…

Would she convince him of the same?

She thinks, eventually, maybe, yes.

She thinks that despite the stubbornness, he is getting tired.

Perhaps they will offer him something else, maybe even promotion, and he will take it and run with it, enjoy it all for a little while longer. She could work part-time on other projects, try a few things she’s always wanted to, has put off until later. Whenever later is.

It won’t be forever, but it could be enjoyable.

It will never be the same, though.

But maybe… maybe that’s okay.

Maybe he needs it.

Maybe they both do.

Do they?

Boyd mumbles again, fidgeting beside her, and Grace reaches for him, rests a soothing hand against his face, runs the pad of her thumb slowly, very slowly over his eyebrow, whispering his name. He settles, and she smiles, combs her fingers through his hair with infinite tenderness, watches him relax, welcomes the peace that returns to his expression.

The CCU is running out of time, in more ways than one.

The higher-ups are waiting for a screw up, a reason, a fault or flaw, just as they have done for years. It could go on and on, perhaps. Even indefinitely, maybe. But while it does, Grace knows Sarah is struggling with her conscience, with what she saw when standing out in the rain, spying.

The other woman is warming to their team, slowly relaxing out of the spotlight and pressure, but Grace is watching, and she can see the fierce battle raging inside whenever those grey eyes land on her and Boyd, the barely veiled accusation hiding there.

Sarah doesn’t know that she was seen. That as the kiss ended and Grace raised her head, the quick movement and flash of blonde hair caught her eye.

To tell, or not to tell…

So far the balance is in their favour, Grace thinks, but what will it take to tip the scales against them and send the messenger running to her master, convinced she is doing the right thing?

The heavy weight in her heart that tells her whatever it will be is coming, and soon.


End file.
